The Wolf and the Raven

by Steven A McKay

  “I’m the preceptor of this commandery, yes,” the Hospitaller replied.

  “Former preceptor,” the nobleman replied. “The king has declared your lands forfeit to the crown as a result of your recent treasonous actions against him.”

  He waited for a reaction, but Sir Richard remained silent. This news was no surprise after all.

  “No doubt you feel very secure locked up in your little fortress,” Sir Philip cried, waving a hand in disdain at the walls which had frustrated his attempts to arrest the Hospitaller and his men. “Well, your castle has bought you some time: I must take my men onwards, so you can relax for a while.”

  Stephen let out a tiny gasp of relief as the knight continued.

  “Do not think this is the end of it though, Sir Richard! Your men might slink off back to their homes in the village as if none of this ever happened, but the king has vowed to make an example of those so-called noblemen – like yourself – who planned this rebellion. Eventually, more of his men will be back for you. Better armed, better prepared to take this pitiful castle down about your treacherous ears! Make the most of your freedom while it lasts, Hospitaller!”

  With that, the horseman turned his mount and kicked his heels into its sides, spurring it into a canter back to his own men and out of range of the archers on the walls behind him.

  “Wanker,” Stephen muttered, drawing a smile from Sir Richard.

  “We’ll give them time to leave, just in case they change their minds,” Sir Richard said. “Then you and the rest of the men,” – he looked over at the archer, Peter, beside him – “can ‘slink off’ back to your homes.”

  The look of relief on Peter’s face was plain, as he dared to hope he might see his family again, and go back to his normal life.

  Sir Richard slapped the man on the back with a smile, told him to remain on watch and alert for now, and then led his loyal sergeant-at-arms down the stairs and into the great hall.

  “That…wanker,” he threw Stephen a sardonic smile as he filled a wooden goblet with wine, “thinks I’m going to sit here waiting for death, or else I’m going to try and make a run for it.”

  Stephen filled a mug of his own from a large jug of ale on the table beside the wine and raised an eyebrow. “So did I,” he admitted. “What are we going to do then?”

  Sir Richard took a sip of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing.

  “I’m not done just yet,” he vowed, “no matter what Sir Philip of Portsmouth might think! I may only be a minor noble, but I’m also a Hospitaller Knight…”

  * * *

  “Wilfred!” As Will came into the street behind Robin and recognised the baker lying dead on the ground, he screamed in rage and, at his young leader’s side, tore into the rebels who shrank back from the berserk gleam in his eyes.

  “Get them!” Scarface shouted, his voice wavering as he saw Friar Tuck barrelling into the street, brandishing his quarterstaff expertly. Suddenly it seemed this might not be such an easy fight after all, especially as the young man with the piercing gaze and the enormous archer’s shoulders was coming straight for him.

  Robin never slowed as the rebel swung his sword in a vicious arc; he parried the blow and swept the man’s feet from under him with his foot. As the man went down, Robin rammed the point of his long sword into his throat, pulled it free and carried on, swinging the bloody weapon upwards into the armpit of another rebel, almost taking the screaming man’s arm off.

  In contrast to Robin’s unnerving silence, Will was roaring the baker’s name like a madman as he battered into the shocked rebels. When his blows were parried, he rammed his forehead into the defender’s face, or kneed them in the groin, before finishing them with a sword thrust.

  Realising they were done for, as the villagers, led by the blacksmith, finally found their courage and ran forward to join the fray, the remaining rebels, seven of them, simply turned and began running for the forest.

  “You!” Robin roared at one of the local youngsters. “Throw me your bow!”

  The outlaw caught the weapon and, whipping an arrow from his belt, sighted on one of the fleeing rebels, taking a fraction of a second to steady himself and visualise where he wanted the missile to strike.

  With a feral scream the rebel dropped to the grass as the outlaw leader’s arrow tore into his calf.

  “Let the rest go!” Robin shouted. “They’ve had enough.”

  The villagers were happy to give up the chase, as the adrenaline began to leave their bloodstream. They had chased off the invaders – that was enough for them.

  Friar Tuck finally managed to halt the enraged Scarlet, who walked back to the fallen baker, sobbing with rage as he turned the man onto his back and closed his eyes.

  Robin looked away from his weeping comrade, not wanting to intrude on the naked show of emotion. And yet, Robin felt a great sorrow too. Wilfred was a good man – he had helped the outlaws. He had, in fact, given Will his life back.

  “He didn’t deserve to die like this,” the blacksmith muttered sadly, wandering over to stand beside them. Meeting Robin’s eye, he carried on. “That little adventure he had with you and your mate last year made him feel like a youngster again – gave him a real zest for life. When those bastards came here acting like they owned the place, Wilfred thought he could take them all on.”

  “You should be proud of him,” Robert nodded. “And learn a lesson from this too. Next time your village comes under attack from a gang of wolf’s heads, you all need to stand up to them!” He glared at the village men who dropped their eyes sheepishly. The big blacksmith simply hefted his hammer thoughtfully and muttered agreement.

  “Chances are, those men will come back here looking for revenge – you better be prepared. So arm yourselves – properly.”

  Fifty paces away the rebel Robin had shot in the leg was groaning as he tried to drag himself away into the trees, before finally giving up and lying panting on the damp spring grass.

  “Come on,” Robin growled to Tuck and Scarlet. “Let’s go and see what that bastard has to say for himself.”

  * * *

  In humiliation akin to that of Christ, Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster, was forced to wear a torn old wreath made of cheap cloth and ride an old mule, with no bridle to steady himself properly, and led to the place of execution.

  He had made his peace with God in the few short hours since his sentence was handed down but still, he was frightened as the worthless old mount carried him to his doom, the locals jeering loudly and pelting him with snowballs so that he almost fell onto the ground once or twice.

  As they neared the platform he raised his voice, which seemed weak and thin after his days of ill-treatment, and cried out in anguish. “King of Heaven, have mercy on me, for the worthless king of England has shown me none!”

  The men and women of York roared in outrage at that, thoroughly enjoying the whole spectacle, and rained more hard-packed snowballs on the defeated earl, who was dragged from the mule by two footmen, angrily trying to stop the missiles hitting them too, and thrown on his knees onto the wooden platform.

  Silence descended on the place, except for the occasional sound of someone stamping their feet or rubbing their hands to try and warm themselves, breath steaming from everyone's mouths, noses running unchecked as every eye was fixed in fascination on the great earl's pitiful downfall.

  The executioner, a lean man with a black hood over his head, strode forward and, raising his voice so it would carry to the furthest reaches of the crowd, grabbed Lancaster and dragged him around to face northwards.

  “Turn to face your allies, the Scots. Traitor!” The executioner roared, to howls of hatred from the mass of spectators, “and receive your foul death!”

  Although he had been sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered, the king had shown leniency and decided a simple beheading – as Thomas had done to Edward's friend, Piers Gaveston ten years earlier – would be enough.

  It took thre
e strokes of the great axe to completely sever the earl's head, and the thump as it dropped to the frost-bitten wooden platform was drowned out by the laughter and near-hysterical cheering as people who had previously supported Lancaster became lost in the spectacle and enjoyed the day's entertainment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The man screamed as Will stood on his calf beside the protruding arrow and pressed down with a snarl.

  “You sack of shit. That was a good man you and your lot killed!”

  Friar Tuck gently pulled the enraged Scarlet backwards and the grounded man gasped, squeezing both hands around his wound to try and dull some of the pain.

  “I didn’t kill the baker,” he grimaced. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Robin leaned down and opened the leather pouch on the man’s belt. The rebel tried to slap the big outlaw’s hands away but Robin cuffed him, hard, on the ear and emptied the contents of the man’s purse onto the road.

  “That’s my money!” A heavy, red-faced older lady pushed her way to the front of the gathered villagers and spat at the thief as she knelt and scooped up the small silver coins. “I was selling ale – just made a fresh batch this morning – when that arsehole came into the house with his friends. Helped themselves to my ale and this one” – she glared down at the sullen man – “helped himself to my takings.”

  “Your ale tasted like piss,” the man muttered, before crying out as Will booted him in the face.

  “Shut your mouth or I’ll rip that arrow right out of your leg!”

  “Where are the rest of your friends camping?” Robin asked, crouching down on his haunches to look at the man, who opened his mouth to make a smart reply, then glanced at Will Scarlet and changed his mind, replying with a question of his own.

  “Why should I tell you anything? You don’t have the look of lawmen.” His eyes took in the light armour and weaponry of the three outlaws and he gave a small humourless laugh. “You’re probably rebels just like me and my mates.”

  A child’s voice piped up from somewhere in the crowd of villagers. “He’s Robin Hood, he brought us food at Christmas!”

  The injured rebel spat on the ground in disgust as the other villagers shouted agreement. “You’re a real hero,” he smirked at Robin. “Good for you.”

  “Right, fuck this,” Will leaned down and began to slowly pull Robin’s arrow from the rebel’s calf. Tuck crossed himself sadly as the man thrashed his shoulders and screamed in agony. “Where’s your camp-site?” Scarlet roared, twisting the shaft of the arrow slightly to cause the man even more pain.

  “A clearing!” The rebel’s voice dropped to a tortured whimper as Will released the pressure on the arrow. “About half an hour’s walk from here, to the north-east.”

  The three outlaws looked at each other, but none of them recognised the place the man had described. “We need more information than that,” Will snarled, placing his hand back on the arrow, as blood oozed thickly from the wound. “Is it near the river? A waterfall? Any trees that look unusual?”

  “A waterfall!” the man shouted, eyes wide at the sight of Scarlet’s hand on the arrow. “Aye, there’s a waterfall! Not a very big one, but we thought it would mask any sounds from our camp-site.” He fell back with a sob.

  Robin looked to Will again, who stood up, nodding. “I know where he’s talking about. He’s right – the sounds of the waterfall will hide the sound of them laughing about the people they’ve murdered. It’ll also hide the sound of men approaching to wipe the lot of them out.”

  “How many of you are hiding out there?” Robin asked the man who was now beyond the point where he cared about resisting.

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Who leads you?”

  “Sir Richard Willysdon.” His eyes flared again, momentarily, and he stared at Will. “You think you’re a hard man, but old Dick’ll show you. He’s a wicked bastard. He’ll eat you three alive.” The rebel grinned through gritted teeth, but shrank back with a whimper as Scarlet jerked his leg as if about to kick him again.

  “All right, let’s get the supplies we came for as quickly as possible,” Robin replied. “Then we’ll head back to camp and decide what to do about these rebels.”

  “What about this one?” Tuck gestured to the man on the ground, who had by now almost passed out from the pain in his leg.

  “Not our problem,” Robin shrugged, turning to the villagers. “He robbed your ale-seller and was part of a gang that murdered your baker. It’s your place to dispense justice, not ours.”

  As the three outlaws moved away to buy their provisions and find a room for the night, the angry mob closed in behind them around the terrified rebel, who shouted for mercy.

  By the time they left the inn to head back to their camp-site just before dawn the next day, the man was swinging gently by a rope hanging from a big oak tree at the roadside. His breeches were heavily stained at the front and back and crows were already gathering, watching from the branches of nearby trees until it was safe for them to move in and feast on the hanged man’s soft flesh and eyeballs. Robin’s arrow was still embedded in his bloody calf.

  Tuck crossed himself again. “Christ, what a sight. The people of Hathersage don’t waste any time, do they?”

  Will shook his head. “Serves the bastard right,” he growled. “And once we find his mates, they’ll be wishing they’d died as quickly.”

  * * *

  Wilfred the baker had been a good friend to the outlaws. Not only had he helped Robin and Allan-a-Dale rescue Will’s daughter, Beth, from a life of slavery in Lord John de Bray’s manor house, he had also helped them rob the same lord. They had piled his wagon high with cash, jewellery, tapestries, silk bed-clothes, silver cups and plates and a huge amount of hoarded food.

  His murder at the hands of a gang of rebels had outraged Robin’s men when they heard about it.

  Robin, Tuck and Will had returned from Hathersage with their tale of the previous day’s events, but by then the sun was beginning to set in the spring sky again so the outlaws spent a quiet night, their anger building at what these rebels were doing in the forest. Their forest.

  As dawn broke the next morning, Allan-a-Dale and Will Scarlet woke the men, impatient to hunt down the rebels that had killed Wilfred.

  “What about breakfast?” Little John wondered, his hair and beard comically tangled as he dragged his enormous frame from his straw pallet on the forest floor.

  “Eat it on the way,” Scarlet shouted, tossing the giant half a black loaf. “Get ready to move!”

  A short time later Robin was leading the outlaws north-east, towards the waterfall the injured rebel had described. He called John and Will, his two most trusted advisers, to him as they made their way through the early spring undergrowth.

  Although Much, his childhood friend from Wakefield, was the outlaw Robin had the closest bond with, he lacked the military skills and tactical knowledge of the terrain around Barnsdale that John and Will had. Robin sometimes felt a little guilty leaving his friend out, but he knew including Much in the planning of missions would be seen as favouritism and, being honest, the young outlaw leader knew his lifelong friend was best employed as a simple foot-soldier.

  “What’s the plan then?” Little John wondered. “Do we have one?”

  “If they’re camped where I think they are,” Will replied, “they’re hemmed in on two sides. The waterfall is a short way to their back, with another tributary feeding in behind their clearing, both feeding into the main course of the river which continues to the east.”

  “It shouldn’t be hard to pin them down then,” Robin nodded, trying to visualize the terrain Will was describing, although he didn’t think he’d ever been there before.

  “That’s it then?” John rumbled. “We just come at them from two sides, knowing they’ve nowhere to escape? Doesn’t seem like it leaves us much room for manoeuvre.”

  “Doesn’t leave them much room for manoeuvre either,” Will grinned. “That’s the idea!�
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  John shook his great head, his long brown hair flailing. “There’s sixteen of us, and there’s about twenty of them, according to that lad you left hanging in Hathersage. Even if we surprise them, we’re still outnumbered. We don’t know anything about these men.”

  Robin and Will exchanged glances, realising their giant friend was right. In their rage and desire to avenge Wilfred’s death they hadn’t given much thought to this.

  “We know their leader’s called Sir Richard Willysdon – Old Dick,” Will noted with a shrug. “And he’s a right dodgy bastard. Apparently.”

  “What about the rest of them?” John asked, spreading his hands wide. “They could all be landless knights. We might be walking into the hardest fight we’ve ever had. I think we need a better plan.”

  The outlaw gang moved through the forest almost silently, their experienced eyes spotting dried twigs that might crack and give away their position, and using the available cover to remain hidden from anyone travelling on the main road.

  Robin pondered the dilemma, knowing John spoke the truth. Although the dozen men they had found butchered near their camp had been poorly armed peasants, many of the defeated insurgents hiding in Barnsdale were knights or at least well armed mercenaries.

  “All right then,” he smiled. “How about this…”

  * * *

  Stephen had set off from Kirklees, early in the morning. It was raining hard, and thunder rumbled some distance off. Thankfully, the wind was behind him, so the driving rain stayed out of his face, but it wasn’t long before his black surcoat was soaked through.

  He wore his gambeson underneath his chain-mail, so he was warm enough, but as he became more sodden and uncomfortable he cursed the circumstances that had brought him to this point.

  “Where would I go?” Sir Richard had asked Stephen the previous night as they sat by a brazier on the battlements, mugs of warmed wine in hand, gazing out at the lush countryside around them. “Aye, there’s no one besieging us just now, and I could escape. But where would I go? Take passage back to the Order’s base in Rhodes, to live a life of austerity as a lowly brother knight? I’ve had my time doing that – being given the commandery of the manor of Kirklees was my reward for many years of loyal service.”